The Art of Killing Death
by Ibbonray
Summary: "The human race is often faced with complicated questions. We don't realize that sometimes, complicated questions have simple answers." Ladies and gentlemen, let the 25th annual Hunger Games begin! *complete*


Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins isn't fourteen. Shy, Mac, and Jack belong to Seta Suzume. The definitions originated with Steve Jobs. However, plot and characters are mine.

Warning: Rated M for multiple, significant reasons. Hope that doesn't concern you.

* * *

**{beginning}**

* * *

stoic |'stō-ik|  
noun  
1\. a person who can endure pain or hardship without showing their feelings or complaining  
adjective  
1\. enduring pain and hardship without showing one's feelings or complaining

* * *

i. he was insensitive

He was the sort of fellow you always wanted to know, but when you did, you didn't like him much. Despite his easygoing smile and that innocent, strawberry-blonde hair, he had a personality similar to a mosquito's. Fundamentally, if you got too close, he'd bite you were it counted.

He'd always been like that, ever since his birth mother decided she couldn't live with such a nuisance and dumped him at the orphanage door. Ever since his gay foster father (yeah, the one he thought was nice) went ahead and molested him in an unoccupied factory. And maybe he would have been a pleasant boy, had he been raised in a nice suburb with caring guardians and little neighbor-boys to play with. But he had been scarred in ways most couldn't fathom. His behavior was understandable.

You can't expect anyone to know that.

For the most part, he was stoic- and that was downright ironic, considering his name was "Stoic"- so regardless of the baker's kid's spiteful commentary, an emotionless expression could adorn his lips until sunset. How many people knew he suffered from constant abuse? How many? None. _None. _He was a foolish boy, foolish because he knew he could fool them and because he constantly partook in this practice.

And so, when the mosquito tendencies thrived, people would walk away, wounded. He wounded people the way he had been wounded before. Sometimes, he would take the girls behind the empty factories, and they left with tears and without innocence. Sometimes, he'd taunt the boys and eventually leave them to run to the medic for something to help with cuts and bruises. Sometimes, he would attend a party with someone just to abandon them a few hours later. You could consider yourself lucky if he snapped at you.

Yet he was deemed a stoic figure. Why?

You see, there is an art to being stoic, as there is an art to everything. Stoic followed it closely, his tendency to have a slow boil immensely helping his cause. He took the abuse, and he smiled, and laughed, and disguised the pain. He let the pain simmer, and the pain fermented into anger, and the anger would vent out through his mouth and body in a torrent of hate. Stoic turned the complaints into something entirely different- something not entirely justified, but something you couldn't necessarily blame him for, either.

But this "something" was insensitive and mean-spirited and _misunderstood._ This "something" turned the entirety of District Five against the smiley mosquito with strawberry-blonde hair. This "something" gained Stoic what was considered to be a one-way ticket to death: a position in the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games.

* * *

ii. he was reaped

Was the use of the term "reaped" appropriate for this context? A more suitable term, he thought, would be "betrayed." Not that there was anyone out there with an unjustified reason to betray him.

The audience looked strung together, like power lines, all of their thoughts connected to the same generator. There was a relief in their bright eyes, and a subtle layer of misplaced revenge that erased any notion of him feeling sorry for himself. So his response to the pockmarked piece of metal thrust in front of his face was, "I deserve it."

He caught the baker's kid laughing along with his collection of cronies in the audience. It almost looked as if Stoic was smiling.

* * *

vendetta |ven'detə|  
noun  
1\. a prolonged, bitter quarrel with someone  
origin: Italian, formerly from Latin _vindicta_ for "vengeance"

* * *

iii. he made fun

Vendetta. Her name was Vendetta, and she was a temporary friend: the sort of person you couldn't trust, the sort of person who would stab you in the back, the sort of person that you couldn't help liking anyway. They were similar. Her life wasn't a picnic, either. Her boyfriend was a cheating jackass that threatened to kill her grandmother if she backed out of the relationship (and he would have very well done it, too). Her only source of income was from the occasional odd job in Factory Nine. Since that wasn't enough to support two fully functioning human beings, she was prone to stealing from the grocer's.

They were also similar in their venting techniques. They both liked to make fun of those from District One, and their ridiculous names. A paradoxical occurrence, considering the number of people in the room totaled to four and their names were "Stoic," "Vendetta," "Shy," and "Twinkle," but a friendship-building technique, nonetheless.

He snickered as the menacing face of one thoughtfully-named Opalescent took up the massive television screen. She let out her own barking laugh, slapping her knee. "Well, if I'll be damned," Vendetta said, "that isn't half bad. Just wait for the boy. Twenty-five that they call him 'Spectacular.'"

"Fifty they don't."

"It's a deal."

To this day, Vendetta still owes him.

* * *

iv. he couldn't see

The cords wrapped around his thin figure, gleaming white and silver and gold. The stunning array of colors created the effect that he was doused in rippling fabric with a metallic sheen. His hair was adorned with more of the silver cords, but these were thin as tinsel. (Their size did not affect their strength.) Beside him, Vendetta was dressed similarly, the silver accentuating her deep auburn curls better than his strawberry blonde.

Their escort- Stoic, a hypocrite, couldn't bring himself to call her by her given name- fretted about the costume behind his back, as if it weren't bright enough. He could tell that his stylist wasn't having it. "Oh, please," she said. "As if you could have done it better yourself." And then the escort turned to gush about the amount of sponsors Stoic would gain and how he would outshine the rest. The fool! He wondered why she even tried.

Vendetta was laughing, her eyes scrutinizing a scantily-dressed Opalescent. "Ugly slut," she said. "You could fit that dress in a coffee mug and still have room left over to drink from." And he has to agree with her, despite a rush of guilt that came from realizing that _this_ was the sort of girl he would have taken advantage of back home. They were always the girls who wore the dresses cut high in the thigh and low in the cleavage, the ones that were just _asking_ to be taken advantage of, the ones that he could silently excuse himself for because they had just _seduced _him so it wasn't as if...

And then, as his gaze shifted, a pair of dark eyes caught his and glared with ruthless venom. For a moment, Stoic was transfixed. They were black eyes, lined with crimson, slanted in a permanent glare. They were the sort of eyes that put up so many façades that you could peel away thousands and still find more to come. The first façade held nothing but death, but as it was, a façade was only a façade.

Stoic's eyes wandered over his body with surprise. He did not seem to be a killer. The television must have enhanced his every feature- the bulk of his muscles, his height, the sharpness of his features. The boy was clearly of average proportions, with coloring that did not match your typical District One criteria, what with the bronze complexion and midnight hair. To put it simply, the boy was nothing overly special- until you met his gaze and learnt his name.

He turned away from Death and pretended as if he'd been gloating about Opalescent's obscene costume. "Doesn't help that the garment's covered in diamonds," Stoic said. "They may use real gemstones, but that doesn't mean they look authentic. Not only does One look like a slut, she looks like a _cheap_ slut."

"Damn straight!" Vendetta agreed, slapping him on the arm with unnecessary strength.

* * *

v. she met karma

He woke to a tap on his shoulder and blood dripping onto his face. She leaned over him, one hand pressed to her forehead and her sculpted auburn eyebrows furrowed with contempt. "I am going to have a word with the president," Vendetta hissed. "He shouldn't allow other tributes to enter our flat!"

His eyes surveyed the scene before him- specifically the blood dripping through the cracks between Vendetta's fingers. "What happened?"

This was enough to throw her into a rant. "The cowardly bitch! She swayed her partner into doing the dirty work for her. What a bastard. Didn't he have any morals? But no, _Death_ obviously doesn't have any morals. It's not like he had anything against me. I called _her_ the slut- and I don't know how in the hell she figured that out, she was too busy checking him out, and he was too busy checking out you, and you were too busy examining Opalescent and agreeing with me to notice- oh, why does it matter? The only thing that matters is _he_ sneaked up into my room and had to take _her_ fucking revenge out on _me_! And I couldn't very well scream, could I? I'm not a _coward,_ and I don't want him to think so because I don't want to be a fucking bloodbath victim, okay? So he pins me down and does it, all the while fixing me with that awfully creepy stare, and then he goes up and leaves and I'm in shock. I'd better show you what he did, shouldn't I?"

Vendetta let out a sigh and removed her hand from her forehead. It was covered in smeared blood until she used Stoic's (regrettably) ivory bed sheets to wipe away the excess. The letters then appeared, momentary red lines that grew until they were puddles of red again. Stoic, always disregarding of empathy, had to congratulate the mastermind behind this revenge. Vendetta definitely deserved this.

_S-L-U-T._

Karma was a bitch. And if he wasn't mistaken, Opalescent had nothing to do with this sudden turn of events.

The doctor was a pleasant, breezy man with not one evil notion pertaining to his soul. He rubbed ointment into the cuts with aqua-blue fingertips and wrapped a white bandage around her head. The doctor pronounced Vendetta good to go after dosing her with pain-relievers and a medicine used to speed up blood cell production. "Don't worry, honey. The scars will have completely faded in two days. Meanwhile, don't overexert yourself in training tomorrow. Stick to the mild stuff. Edible plants, knots, shelter-building… the sort of stations you'd be good at, since you're a girl, no?"

Unfortunately, the doctor was a bit prejudiced against women. Fortunately, he was young and stable enough to withhold her unsympathetic punch to the face.

* * *

vi. he overdosed on emotion

It would come no surprise to the residents of District Five that he excelled in training, although his fellow tributes were another matter. They had underestimated him, as they had underestimated every one of their peers, for it was the Quarter Quell and the reaped consisted of your average delinquents or worthy fighters who could actually _win this thing._

That was the key point: the districts sent in the dangerous individuals who could _win this thing,_ and if their tributes were strong enough they could _win this thing_ and bring honor and wealth and food to their deprived district. It was inevitable that they would underestimate their fellow tributes, a consequence of their utter narcissism. Stereotypical, but true.

On the other hand, while the those who underestimated their peers were incorrect, they soon became the underestimated. Because not one of these individuals was going to give up in the face of honor and wealth and food, much less their life, which would be either handed to them on a silver platter or smashed to bits. Not one was going to give up on the _First Quarter Quell,_ especially when all of them (all of them!) had a fighting chance.

Of course, there was nothing more discouraging than walking across a room to see One throwing knives and Two tackling swords and Three preparing electrical traps and Four hurling spears and Six playing paintball and Seven sharpening axes and Eight fighting with something that closely resembled a needle blown up to fifty times its regular size and Nine swinging scythes and Ten stabbing dummies and Eleven launching artistically spiked boulders with gigantic slingshots and Twelve viciously firing arrows. Stoic, after but fifteen minutes of careful observation, was easily able to think up a comparison between training and preparing for war. Unfortunately, preparing for war alongside the enemy isn't the most intelligent form of preparation.

In a nutshell? The entire process was disheartening. Stoic's ability in hand-to-hand combat, acquired after several years of fighting with the other boys in District Five (the baker's kid being a particular favorite), suddenly seemed like nothing in comparison to his fellow tributes.

And Vendetta's scars were no help. The snickering followed her everywhere she went- the throwing knives and poison stations, naturally- and it reflected negatively upon District Five itself. He knew what they were thinking when they saw him: "Oh, district partner of the slut? Wonder if he shags her. No competition, really." And how did that make him feel? Hurt? Misunderstood? Pitiable?

_FURIOUS._

Stoic was furious.

Death didn't help the subject matter one damn bit. His eyes bored into Stoic's less-than-stoic soul on a regular basis, resulting in the mosquito's frustration. There was something _off_ about Death's glare. For it wasn't a death glare, not really. It was more lustful, in a sense, with a twisted twinge of the madness instilled in your average serial killer. Stoic didn't know what to make of this. It was pretty fucking obvious that Death was fascinated with Stoic, which was confusing and disturbing and just plain _outrageous_. Could you really blame him for asking her to do him a favor just before bed?

"Vendetta. I know there's nothing between us-"

"-But you need a good fuck, don't you? Well, come on, then. Don't think this'll be a regular occurrence."

So maybe she was a little bit of a slut.

* * *

shy |shī|  
adjective  
1\. having or showing nervousness or timidity in the company of other people  
2\. the state or quality of being reserved

* * *

vii. she understood complications

She was a tiny, wispy creature, with tangled blond hair and crimson lips- and despite being in her late thirties, she looked much younger. Shy was quite the dynamic character. Her shell was the opposite of her conflicted interior, her strength unaccounted for until you were forced to watch her cough up blood through the entirety of her Games. Did tuberculosis account for the mysteries one held, Stoic wondered? Improbable, but diseases were strange, and Shy was even more strange.

As the renowned Mags of District Four said in an interview, "Shy is a good friend, but my view through the kaleidoscope differs from everyone else's. She, like every individual, has a collection of sides; a multitude of layers."

Therefore, he wasn't exactly surprised when he approached Shy and she began to laugh without reason. Needless to say, his appearance remained stoic as he expressed his concerns.

She pondered his confessions, taking his hands in hers, a familiar action practiced between herself and the rest of humanity. "I know you," she admits. "Or else- I know a version of you. I know you'd take gals behind the factories, and I know that Mac-" (the mayor, her husband) "-caught you once, and I know that he was the one who dubbed you nominee because of it. And I don't know the reason why you've done this- I suppose you've been brought up this way- but you have a lot of anger in you, Stoic." She smiled. "Anger is what helps you _win._"

He pasted on a look of confusion. "I'm not an angry person. You have no right to accuse me of that."

"Oh, but I do! I have experienced anger first-hand, and I know the symptoms (although they haven't plagued me for years). I'm here to help you exploit the anger, and as your mentor, I advise you listen to me closely." She released his hands and grabbed her loose strands of hair, pulling them together with a spare tie. "You want to kill someone? You _seduce _them. You pretend to love 'em, and then you stab 'em in the back. As Mac says, 'to kill 'em, you gotta trick 'em.' _Trick him. _You've already had plenty of practice, what difference does a change in gender make?"

At the time, Stoic didn't know how far this piece of advice would get him. Then again, he was sure it was bloody genius, because it was a Vendetta tactic (and although Vendetta wasn't necessarily going to make it, rash as she was, he was assured she would make it far). And so he decided he would exploit his anger, as Shy said, upon a singular target: Death.

"Can I ask you a question?" He inquired.

"Why not?" She beamed.

"Why were you laughing when I came up to you?"

"Oh, that," Shy waved off his question. "Just a train of thought. I was thinking about how you vaguely resemble Jack when he was eighteen- y'know, Jack Umber, first Victor and all- and then that led to another thing and suddenly I was reminiscing the day Mags saw my bloomers. I dunno- the brain is really somethin' else." As she turned to leave, he decided that it was not the brain but _Shy_ who was something else, and that her parents were idiots to choose such an inaccurate name. (It was a tradition in Five to name children after emotions or traits they portray, Stoic being an accurate example.)

Then again, he didn't really know her.

* * *

viii. he told them

His eyes fluttered open after a brief, preparatory blink. He focused upon the Head Gamemaker, a balding man with a hooked nose. At the moment, the nose was turned up at Stoic, creating an aura of superiority. But he knew the superiority was false, for what would the Head Gamemaker be without his beloved tributes? Careerless, in both senses. And that would lead to poverty- yes, the Capitol wasn't without inferior members- and homelessness. Mr. Ibis would be a nobody.

"Well?" the man said impatiently. "We don't have all day."

Stoic beamed at him, his heart beating in his ears. Just because he was stoic didn't mean he was emotionally deprived. "Stoic. District Five. Someone you don't care about and probably won't care about in two weeks," he began. "But I'll tell you about myself anyway. I got nominated for these Games because I made a habit of taking out my anger on others, and I recognize that. I also recognize that I am often apoplectic at the worst of times." He noticed the Head Gamemaker rolling his eyes, and was suddenly overcome with the same rage he just spoke of. "And _why_ is that important? Because angry people _formulate a plan._

"My plan," he went on, his words heated, "is to kill Death."

One of the Gamemakers burst out laughing. "What an ignorant idiot!" he shouted at Stoic. "A kid like you couldn't kill Death. No one can. District One is a sure win this year."

"And there is where you are wrong," Stoic smirked. "Why do you assume that your beloved Careers are invincible? Flawless? Why have you accepted the stereotypes and become a bunch of biased bettors? Death has weaknesses that are easily exploited, and my plan revolves around these weaknesses. If you'd rather ignore my claims and fail to expect the unexpected, be my guest_._" He began to march out of the room, gratified to no extent.

"District Five!" the Head Gamemaker suddenly cried. "Please return to state your plan immediately. You have not been dismissed, and to leave without dismissal violates the unwritten rules of a private session."

Stoic didn't turn around, but a satisfied grin took his lips. "Mr. Ibis, it is a great pleasure to inform you that I have gathered enough evidence to conclude Death is homosexual." There was a brief silence, shocked, as if the Gamemakers did not know what to do with this information. "As for my plan: I assume you've heard of the art of seduction?"

And then, disregarding of the Head Gamemaker's warning on dismissal, Stoic triumphantly exited the room. It marked the conclusion of the shortest private session in history, totaling to a whopping one minute and thirty-nine seconds. Impressive, indeed.

(Then again, this would eventually be broken by Johanna Mason.)

* * *

ix. they scored him

Once again, he sat next to Vendetta, who promptly swung her feet onto his lap without permission. "Nervous?" she teased, her smile borderline malicious. He knew and understood the maliciousness. He knew and understood that she was the sort of selfish brat who would betray anyone, and he recognized that her moods became predatory when she felt uncomfortable. Another tactic that he'd used before: bullying others in a hypocritical fashion. Therefore, Stoic could conclude that she was just as nervous as he, and that it would be unwise to tell her off for placing her feet in his lap because if he was a mosquito, Vendetta was a grenade.

When she fell- and this was in a figurative sense, depicting her changes in mood- Vendetta exploded.

Stoic simply gave her a disgruntled look and a "You wish," before turning back to the screen. A sienna-skinned Julius sat upon an infamous stool (infamous for an incident a couple years back that was much too inappropriate to mention in everyday conversation), looking extraordinarily humanoid hat year, reading from a script. However, the words were rehearsed from the previous year, and the year before that, so the script was remarkably unnecessary.

The only thing that mattered was the interviewer's announcement of the scores of the tributes.

Of course, when these were read off, Stoic earned the lowest score of them all: two. Twinkle sighed, Vendetta snorted.

Shy, ever the optimist, congratulated him.

* * *

x. he was fashionably improved

According to the actor he had always been, Stoic was to be charming and comedic, with a touch of agonizing honesty. The stylist took into consideration this angle factor, as well as the theme of their previous costumes, which henceforth contributed to the outfit he wore currently. The suit was of a gold-blonde-red color that matched his shade of hair quite well. The tie took on a shockingly silver hue, and the same tinsel-sized hair decorations were used on this occasion.

"I feel," he told a radiant Vendetta, "as if I am going to blind someone."

"It could be worse- you could be Eleven." (And indeed, Eleven was wearing the most appalling neon orange that Stoic had ever set his eyes upon.) "Besides, if my input matters any, the color suits you. Must be because your hair has grown on me. I didn't like it much before, but if you wake up every morning to ugliness, it eventually starts to look pretty."

"Thanks," Stoic said, the word laced with sarcasm.

She shrugged. "I'm hoping that if I act painfully honest around you, it'll rub off. Anyway, your stylist's taste is out of whack. What bitch puts together silver with strawberry blonde? Silver, my friend, is not your color. You know what would look amazing? A black tie, a black shirt... black cord-tinsel. You'd look damn sexy- even sexier than _I _look tonight." Vendetta struck a pose, running her fingers through her auburn curls, acting mockingly vain. And then, as her hand dropped back to her side, she seemed to be struck with the idea of the century. "Wait here. You're gonna look so sexy Death'll want to fuck you until stars shine out your ass."

He didn't bother to question her how the hell she figured _that_ out- not that he'd want to be fucked, Death's infatuation was infinitely unrequited- but instead, automatically assumed she had known from the beginning. Such an inquisitive little slut.

Stoic then awaited her return, in which she personally redecorated the top half of his body with items stolen from the stylist's main quarters. He wasn't going to ask about that feat, either, just keep his head up high and deny knowing a kleptomaniac. Finally, when Vendetta was finished ripping out the silver tinsel and replacing it with black, she took a step back. "That's a damn good job. I should be a stylist. You're gonna knock 'em all out, Stoic."

And yeah, she was bound to be a backstabbing bitch, but he couldn't help but give her a small smile in return (the kind that actually _meant_ something).

* * *

xi. questions for questions

He was winging it. Everything. Even his angle. Although Shy was occasionally brilliant,her brilliance was tailored with opinion, and he wanted to prove that he could do something for himself. If he wanted to change his angle then he _could_ change his angle, and that was just the way it was going to be.

"You look quite handsome tonight, Stoic. The dark aspects of the piece really make the colors pop. I offer my compliments to your stylist."

He replied that no, the black was not his stylist's doing, but it was, in fact, Vendetta's. An action completely against the rules and one that could consequentially affect the both of them in the arena, but what did it matter? They were going to suffer enough, anyway. (He'd talked about mentioning the alterations with Vendetta beforehand, just in case she was against publicity- her reply had been, and I quote, "Bring it on, bitches.")

"Well, if she makes it out of the arena, we're recruiting her," Julius joked. The crowd laughed. Stoic remained silent. "It was an honor to be reaped for the First Quarter Quell, I assume?"

An honor? No. A death threat? A betrayal? Of course! Did he care? Not in the slightest.

"Stoic. Stoic, Stoic, Stoic. How did it feel to earn the lowest training score of the bunch?"

It was a simple question, really, but there were multiple answers. He addressed them all. What did it matter? A training score was nothing. He could have been hiding his talents; could have used this strategy so others would pinpoint him first, just to take them out early on. Maybe he had asked the Gamemakers to give him a low score. Or had they disagreed with the brilliancy of his performance? Had he displayed tactics and secrets that they had contradicted? Was he, by any chance, going to answer the question deliberately? Sure: he felt indifferent.

"Tactics and secrets... what are these secrets you speak of?"

"Secrets aren't secrets unless you tell, Julius. In a nutshell, it is a secret about Death-" (or perhaps death, if you interpreted his meaning differently) "-and I will say no more."

* * *

xii. they watched reruns

Shy wasn't disappointed. "Your angle was much better than my original idea. A bit stoic, rebellious. You performed well, and I like a tribute with defiance."

They watched reruns, and Vendetta's feet, like last time, rested on his lap. He considered telling her to get off, but it was their last night here (together) anyway- what did it matter? Besides, he wasn't paying attention to the residents of the room. The escort was casually painting her nails with toxin-filled lacquer, and the stylist was glaring so ferociously at the black accents of his costume that she had lost concentration on her drink and slopped champagne all over the front of her dress. Shy smiled pleasantly in the corner, typing something on a small digital screen held a foot from her face.

But Stoic's eyes were not for the scene surrounding him, and instead directed toward the television, where they concentrated upon Death's face.

_"Secrets aren't secrets unless you tell, Julius."_ A smirk played at One's lips, his dark eyes taking in the sight of a certain Stoic bedecked in strawberry-blonde-gold. _"In a nutshell, it is a secret about Death-"_ Stoic watched as the smirk died, the eyebrows knit in confusion, the eyes hastily stacked more brick walls (forgetting the mortar) _"-and I will say no more."_ A panoramic shot took all of the tributes' expressions into account, some indifferent, some amused, some thoughtful, some befuddled. And Death, located towards the beginning of the row, turned to face the camera, his eyes piercing the depths of Stoic's soul. His eyes seemed to ask, "What do you know?"

"Secrets aren't secrets unless you tell, Death," he muttered. "Your eyes are megaphones."

* * *

nero |'ni(ə)rō|  
proper noun  
1\. Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus (AD 37-68) ~ Roman emperor infamous for his cruelty ~ Ordered the murder of his mother Agrippina in 59, witnessed a fire that destroyed half of Rome in 64, and wantonly executed leading Romans ~ A wave of uprisings in 68 led to his flight from Rome and his eventual suicide

* * *

xiii. he ran away

He wasn't sure how the stuttering Germanicus had managed to acquire the spot as announcer, because if he had had the choice, he would choose any other man's voice to send him off to his death. Then again, the alternate option in previous years wasn't much better. The preceding announcer- Nero- had possessed a booming voice that caused over half the tributes to cover their ears in a futile attempt to protect their pitiable eardrums.

Stoic almost- _almost-_ missed him. But Nero was dead after his stepsister Agrippina of District Four was reaped and succumbed to the bloodbath only moments after his "May the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" It was said that Nero experienced a mental breakdown and ended up committing suicide after viewing the horrific sight of Agrippina's- well, if you put it blatantly- guts. Stoic wondered how powerful the love was that drove Nero to do this, and unfortunately, was not able to understand what this sort of love felt like.

He'd never loved anyone before.

And he sure didn't love Germanicus, that was certain. The man was a nervous wreck, even over intercom. "L-ladies and g-g-gentleman, let the Twenty-Fifth Hung-ger G-games begin! And m-may the odds be ever in your f-favor." His lack of confidence was appalling, and Stoic marveled over this for nearly half a minute, wondering whether the new announcer had donated good money to acquire his unearned career.

Finally, Stoic snapped out of his annoyed stupor and turned his gaze into the direction of a certain opponent, staring casually until he caught Death's eye. After this, they engaged in a most juvenile contest, eyes locked, one pair calculating and the other pair shielded from what would be fascination. It was a silent contest in which neither broke the stare until the gong rang, spurring Stoic to leap from his stance and run from the Cornucopia. Death hesitated momentarily, torn between following District Five and tackling the victims surrounding him. Eventually, he ran towards the Cornucopia, and Stoic congratulated himself on a job well done.

His arms pumped, his legs flew, he ran and leaped and morphed into a creature so powerful and mysterious you would not want to cross his path. He spared but one glance behind himself, where he swore he saw Vendetta stabbing District Seven in the back. (Yes, Vendetta- the slutty, betraying bitch of a friend whom he admired for her ingenious display of friendship that Stoic had never trusted, anyway. But he had respected her, and their acquaintanceship had been pleasant, so he could not hide his impression.)

* * *

xiv. he kept running

{Enough said.}

* * *

xv. he killed them

They weren't pretty deaths. Both the animals and humans alike put up a fight, for the animals (all of them) were mutts and the humans (all of them) were out to _win this thing._ At least the arena (smaller than usual) didn't provide danger: the berries and nuts were edible, the vines of the rain forest nothing but vines. The only thing special about this year were the snakes and jaguars and piranhas and crocodiles and spiders and flies and mosquitoes, programmed to attack the tributes at any given opportunity. Which, Stoic admitted, was a lot worse than it sounded- considering his lack of sleep those days.

The tributes that attacked weren't vulnerable, either, but they instantly regretted their actions when the old routine kicked in and Stoic punched and broke and squeezed his way to victory. First slain by his hand was Eight- the Gamemakers forgot to include the gigantic needles in the Cornucopia stash, much to their chagrin- and then Three (tangled in her own incomplete traps).

Stoic, not unexpectedly, lived up to his name. The deaths meant nothing to him because he, too, was out to _win this thing. _And if that meant saving the majority of his sponsorship money until the very end, like he had discussed with Shy, so be it.

* * *

rat |rat|  
noun  
1\. a rodent resembling a large mouse, typically having a pointed snout and a long, sparsely haired tail  
2\. a person regarded as despicable, esp. a man who has been deceitful or disloyal  
verb  
1\. to desert one's party, side, or cause

* * *

xvi. he witnessed betrayal

It was the fifth day. Vendetta's voice wafted to him via a light breeze. He was up a tree, looking down upon a sight he wished he didn't have to encounter. "How could you run away?" she asked. "How could you betray our alliance, Rat? I never did anything to you, I never would do anything to you!"

Stoic could hear the falseness in her seemingly desperate tone, a hypocritical lie meant to dub the accused guilty. It was another ploy, he knew, that would end up with her stabbing "Rat" in the back.

"It's Rathea," the girl's voice corrected coldly. "I parted ways with you because of your certain, impending betrayal. It was unavoidable. You used me to learn my trades, and once you'd done that, you were going to dispose of me like old paint. Can you blame me for attempting to save my ass, _Revenge?_" Stoic pondered her use of language and unmistakable accent. Eventually, he concluded that she was from District Six. District Six was, unfortunately, not known for their smarts. (He had to hand it to Rathea for realizing the inevitable, even if it was a bit too late).

Vendetta's voice turned to steel. "There was nothing to save your ass from, _Rat._ I thought that when we formed this alliance we were placing our full trust in each other. I am disappointed that you don't think me trustworthy. I had no reason to betray you and you should have known better than to leave me, alone and unprotected! I don't know why you assumed that I would do something so preposterous, you fucking filthy rat-"

"Shut up, you little slut!" Rathea screeched. "It's over. _It's over._ I don't see why you have to be so vengeful- maybe you've got some fucking notion that you have to live up to your name- I don't know. I left and you should have been happy that I was gone! You wanted me gone in the first place, but oh no, you're _Vendetta._ Well, guess what? I'm leaving. I'm leaving _right now _and you better be fucking relieved that I haven't killed you yet!" And in one motion, she turned on her heel and stomped in the opposite direction.

Wrong move.

Stoic watched as Vendetta, seething, gracefully drew a knife from her insulated hunting boot and crept towards the steaming Rathea, who was in such a rage she was unaware to Vendetta's presence. He muttered incoherently under his breath as his district partner drove the elegantly curved knife into her former ally's back. Rathea gave a shriek of surprise, and ten seconds or so later, the boom of a cannon thundered in his ears.

Vendetta cackled audibly- a more hostile person in the arena than back home- and removed the pack from Rathea's limp shoulders, shuffling through its contents while she silently gloated. Simultaneously, Stoic dropped from his perch in the tree, landing on the ground snake-silent. Inside his own insulated hunting boot, he grasped his own knife, donated by sponsors.

He proceeded to sneak towards an unsuspecting Vendetta, who was currently congratulating herself on her third kill. She didn't turn around, and soon enough, Stoic's knife was inches from her spine, ready to strike. He closed his eyes when he did, the knife sticking in the middle of her back, a wave of rueful thoughts taking over his mind just to be relentlessly shoved away.

"I'll take care of your grandmother, slut," he said quietly, and, even approaching death, Vendetta recognized his voice.

"Damn right you will, fucking fag," were Vendetta's last words, accompanied by a smile.

And when the cannon boomed, memories flashed in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision and reminding him that Vendetta was once a thoughtful soul who loved to laugh at others' expense. They were alike, Stoic and Vendetta, and that had forced him to respect her. He continued to respect her, even in her death, and acknowledged that the reason he had committed this homicide was because Vendetta was competition. Vendetta was calculating competition with a dangerous streak that could not be overlooked.

Stoic made way for the hovercraft and watched as two women were lifted into the sky, one face obscured by a curtain of black and the other highlighted with a mishmash of auburn red.

Vendetta still owed him that bet.

* * *

xvii. the days passed

And the cannons boomed. Day six killed three, including Opalescent, and day seven killed one. Stoic hid in his tree, careful to avoid venomous tarantulas and dragon-sized boa constrictors, foraging for acai berries and genetically engineered Brazil nuts (the trees modified to produce during summer rather than late winter). These frequent snacks didn't cure the gnawing in his stomach that accompanied hunger- only a full meal would, and such luxuries couldn't be afforded with the money Shy was currently saving for him- but they did give him the small doses of energy he required.

Day eight dawned and Stoic ate all of the acai berries and Brazil nuts his body could consume without throwing up. The sun rose above the last remaining tributes, bathing them in light, and a sense of foreboding fell upon both men. Today they would battle. Today would be the end.

* * *

xviii. he prepared himself

"You know what I need, Shy."

A parachute drifted from the sky, attached to a small package containing a variety of items that would be worthless without a plan backing their meaning. Upon opening it he discovered a handheld mirror and gazed into it, frowning at his disheveled, emaciated appearance (although he couldn't help it, really). Underneath was a comb, which he ran through his strawberry-blonde locks in attempt to tame them. Next was a water bottle which he dumped over his head to wash away the sweat and grime accumulated over the past week, and though it did him good, it definitely didn't rival a hot bath.

The last items were a bundle of black cord-tinsel and a necklace portraying a metal pendant in the shape of a lightning bolt. He grinned and attached the cord-tinsel to his hair using the small clips at the end of each piece, using the comb to smooth them down and create the effect of regularity. The accessories reminded Stoic of Vendetta, and it relieved him to know that he was going into this battle with a piece of her with him, giving him the strength and courage to carry out his scheme.

He could almost imagine her saying, "If you show the fag any mercy, I'm going to personally interfere and it's not gonna be pretty."

Finally, he slipped the necklace over his head and stripped himself of clothes, standing bare-bodied in the middle of the twenty-fifth arena with nothing but a necklace and hair cord-tinsel to provide him comfort. "I'll do you proud, Shy," Stoic said, his face empty of expression, although modesty screamed at him from the inside. "Gamemakers- I know you want your show. Direct me to his location and we'll see who wins this Game."

The jungle shifted around him, forming a natural pathway towards Death. He walked forward, taking measured steps along the muddy trail. They say that on their execution day, prisoners will walk a hallway dubbed "the last mile," towards the electric chair that ends their life. Stoic, too, walked the last mile towards Death. A literal one, paved with greenery.

The only difference, in this case, was the outcome.

* * *

death |deth|  
noun  
1\. the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism  
2\. the state of being dead

* * *

xix. he killed death

Death's eyes surveyed him, dark eyes clouded with lust and ire (for once, the façades slipping away). Stoic placidly approached, his gaze locked in on dark irises as a smirk played at his lips. His arms were crossed in front of his bare chest as he took three lengthy strides, lids lowered seductively. "I surrender," he whispered, trailing a finger along Death's jawline.

Death shuddered. "I should kill you. I must kill you," he replied, voice low and grating.

Stoic smiled. "I surrender," he repeated, his fingers ghosting down Death's shirt and trailing under the hem, tracing the bare skin. "I surrender to what I want most before death. A-" he leaned closer "-good-" his lips brushed the shell of Death's ear "-_fuck_."

A certain opponent's breath caught in his throat and Stoic barely managed to contain a smug grin. "Weaponless," Death muttered, his eyes gloating as he removed a knife from his sponsor-bought Kevlar vest. The knife was a dainty thing, the sort of weapon one would use to slowly and meticulously torture another to death, and Stoic took this as a good sign. "Why are you-" he moved the knife up to District Five's lips "-such an idiot?" and he gracefully drew the point across the red-pigmented skin, once, twice, thrice.

Stoic's lips stung as Death leaned over and kissed them furiously, shoving his tongue into his suspecting mouth.

Death tasted of blood. Stoic's blood.

"Infatuation-" Stoic murmured, unzipping his counterpart's vest and removing the shirt, while his fingernails left faint scratches on olive skin, "-isn't idiocy." Nipples were pinched and pierced, moans expelled, hair pulled and cut off, pants discarded. A tongue probed his, a tongue that tasted of salt and iron because of the cuts on his lips and where the knife had sliced his dimples. Stoic ignored the pain. Deception came with a price, and the price was high these days, for Death was dangerous and he wasn't going to stop until Stoic put and end to him, or he put an end to Stoic.

Feverish hands gripped his cock, and Stoic was good at pretending, even when the knife descended and trailed small cuts up his thighs. The image of a different scenario was his only reprieve as he reciprocated without a knife of his own- pressing against Death, scratching Death, imitating the sound of a moan. Death's eyes were open and piercing his, the look of a serial killer adorning his features: a sick, mad sort of love.

Somehow they ended up lying on the ground, and somehow Death pressed into him, and the pain might have been blinding but he pretended as if he was enjoying it- because that was all he could do, really. Stoic took the thrusts and allowed himself to be immersed in an agonized haze while Death climbed high with ecstasy. He couldn't feel the knife as it cut letters into his chest and across his forehead, the signature move of the male tribute from District One. This time, he was a W-H-O-R-E. This time, he was taken by D-E-A-T-H.

He fingered the lightning bolt necklace and waited until Death screamed in pleasure before pressing a small button on the side of the bolt. The pendant elongated to form a spike, laced with poison. As Death rode out another wave of ecstasy, as his eyes closed tight and a smirk adorned his blood-coated lips, Stoic plunged the spike into the side of his opponent's neck.

Death's eyes flew open in shock, his knife jabbing out in reflex but missing its mark. An accusatory stare was directed at Stoic, who jumped away from Death to avoid District One's last, flailing attempts at murder. The poison, of course, spread quickly- so quickly that Death was paralyzed by the time he thought to jump to his feet and take out his revenge. His lungs failed him, his heart failed him, and the accusatory stare glazed over almost immediately. Forever looking in the direction of where Stoic stood. Or rather, where Stoic _had_ stood. For the Victor from District Five crumpled, falling to his knees in defeat, and ultimately fell unconscious from trauma and blood loss.

And that, my friends, is the tale of Stoic's victory.

* * *

xx. how he won

It was often speculated how Stoic won the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games. He was never intended to win, but somehow, he did. Was it his skill in hand-to-hand combat? Was it his sense of duty that granted his opponents no mercy? Was it his bravery? His ability to gain sponsors? His powerful sense of seduction? His mosquito-like tendencies? "No," Stoic would tell them. "The answer is simple."

And simple it was. How did Stoic win the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games, you ask? He killed Death.

This action was forever infamous, especially in its metaphorical meaning. Nobody can possibly kill death because death is murder itself. Yet a boy of seventeen was able to conquer the supposedly unconquerable. It's funny how humanity makes assumptions based on the characteristics of others. Because Stoic was named Stoic, one took for granted that he was without meaningful feelings, for your average stoic can endure most pain and hardship that others cannot. Because Death was named Death, one took for granted that he could survive the Hunger Games, despite his standard height and regular features. Because death can be caused by murder, but death cannot _be_ murdered.

Mankind, with a few exceptions, is driven by assumption. Sometimes, we are correct. Sometimes, we aren't. The question is, why are we surprised when our assumptions are proven incorrect? And once our assumptions are proven incorrect, why do we avoid speaking against them? When Stoic won, people took aspects of his personality and actions and twisted them into excuses that didn't pinpoint the exact reason, because they couldn't admit that Stoic. Killed. Death. Could we blame them? No. If we did, we'd all be hypocrites.

The human race is often faced with complicated questions. We don't realize that sometimes, complicated questions have simple answers. So when Vendetta's grandmother approached Stoic and asked him why he murdered her granddaughter, he replied, "I respected the fact that she was a worthy opponent."

Vendetta's grandmother promptly invited him to dinner.

* * *

dinner |'dinər|  
noun  
1\. the main meal of the day, typically taken in the evening  
2\. a formal evening meal, typically one in honor of a person or event

* * *

**{end}**


End file.
